The Age of Fable, by Thomas Bulfinch

Chapter XXIV.

Orpheus and Eurydice.

ORPHEUS was the son of Apollo and the Muse Calliope. He was presented by his father with a lyre and
taught to play upon it, which he did to such perfection that nothing could withstand the charm of his music. Not only
his fellow-mortals, but wild beasts were softened by his strains, and gathering round him laid by their fierceness, and
stood entranced with his lay. Nay, the very trees and rocks were sensible to the charm. The former crowded round him
and the latter relaxed somewhat of their hardness, softened by his notes.

Hymen had been called to bless with his presence the nuptials of Orpheus with Eurydice; but though he attended, he
brought no happy omens with him. His very torch smoked and brought tears into their eyes. In coincidence with such
prognostics, Eurydice, shortly after her marriage, while wandering with the nymphs, her companions, was seen by the
shepherd Aristaeus, who was struck by her beauty and made advances to her. She fled, and in flying trod upon a snake in
the grass, was bitten in the foot, and died. Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air, both gods and
men, and finding it all unavailing resolved to seek his wife in the regions of the dead. He descended by a cave
situated on the side of the promontory of Taenarus and arrived at the Stygian realm. He passed through crowds of ghosts
and presented himself before the throne of Pluto and Proserpine. Accompanying the words with the lyre, he sung, “O
deities of the under-world, to whom all we who live must come, hear my words, for they are true. I come not to spy out
the secrets of Tartarus, nor to try my strength against the three-headed dog with snaky hair who guards the entrance. I
come to seek my wife, whose opening years the poisonous viper’s fang has brought to an untimely end. Love has led me
here, Love, a god all powerful with us who dwell on the earth, and, if old traditions say true, not less so here. I
implore you by these abodes full of terror, these realms of silence and uncreated things, unite again the thread of
Eurydice’s life. We all are destined to you, and sooner or later must pass to your domain. She too, when she shall have
filled her term of life, will rightly be yours. But till then grant her to me, I beseech you. If you deny me, I cannot
return alone; you shall triumph in the death of us both.”

As he sang these tender strains, the very ghosts shed tears. Tantalus, in spite of his thirst, stopped for a moment
his efforts for water, Ixion’s wheel stood still, the vulture ceased to tear the giant’s liver, the daughters of Danaus
rested from their task of drawing water in a sieve, and Sisyphus sat on his rock to listen. Then for the first time, it
is said, the cheeks of the Furies were wet with tears. Proserpine could not resist, and Pluto himself gave way.
Eurydice was called. She came from among the new-arrived ghosts, limping with her wounded foot. Orpheus was permitted
to take her away with him on one condition, that he should not turn around to look at her till they should have reached
the upper air. Under this condition they proceeded on their way, he leading, she following, through passages dark and
steep, in total silence, till they had nearly reached the outlet into the cheerful upper world, when Orpheus, in a
moment of forgetfulness, to assure himself that she was still following, cast a glance behind him, when instantly she
was borne away. Stretching out their arms to embrace each other, they grasped only the air! Dying now a second time,
she yet cannot reproach her husband, for how can she blame his impatience to behold her? “Farewell,” she said, “a last
farewell,”— and was hurried away, so fast that the sound hardly reached his ears.

Orpheus endeavoured to follow her, and besought permission to return and try once more for her release; but the
stern ferryman repulsed him and refused passage. Seven days he lingered about the brink, without food or sleep; then
bitterly accusing of cruelty the powers of Erebus, he sang his complaints to the rocks and mountains, melting the
hearts of tigers and moving the oaks from their stations. He held himself aloof from womankind, dwelling constantly on
the recollection of his sad mischance. The Thracian maidens tried their best to captivate him, but he repulsed their
advances. They bore with him as long as they could; but finding him insensible one day, excited by the rites of
Bacchus, one of them exclaimed, “See yonder our despiser!” and threw at him her javelin. The weapon, as soon as it came
within the sound of his lyre, fell harmless at his feet. So did also the stones that they threw at him. But the women
raised a scream and drowned the voice of the music, and then the missiles reached him and soon were stained with his
blood. The maniacs tore him limb from limb, and threw his head and his lyre into the river Hebrus, down which they
floated, murmuring sad music, to which the shores responded a plaintive symphony. The Muses gathered up the fragments
of his body and buried them at Libethra, where the nightingale is said to sing over his grave more sweetly than in any
other part of Greece. His lyre was placed by Jupiter among the stars. His shade passed a second time to Tartarus. where
he sought out his Eurydice and embraced her with eager arms. They roam the happy fields together now, sometimes he
leading, sometimes she; and Orpheus gazes as much as he will upon her, no longer incurring a penalty for a thoughtless
glance.

The story of Orpheus has furnished Pope with an illustration of the power of music, for his “Ode for St. Cecilia’s
Day.” The following stanza relates the conclusion of the story:

“But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes;

Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!

How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?

No crime was thine, if ‘tis no crime to love.

Now under hanging mountains,

Beside the falls of fountains,

Or where Hebrus wanders,

Rolling in meanders,

All alone,

He makes his moan,

And calls her ghost,

For ever, ever, ever lost!

Now with furies surrounded,

Despairing, confounded,

He trembles, he glows,

Amidst Rhodope’s snows.

See, wild as the winds o’er the desert he flies;

Hark! Haemus resounds with the Bacchanals’ cries.

Ah, see, he dies!

Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,

Eurydice still trembled on his tongue:

Eurydice the woods

Eurydice the floods

Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.”

The superior melody of the nightingale’s song over the grave of Orpheus is alluded to by Southey in his
“Thalaba”:

“Then on his ear what sounds

Of harmony arose!

Far music and the distance-mellowed song

From bowers of merriment;

The waterfall remote;

The murmuring of the leafy groves;

The single nightingale

Perched in the rosier by, so richly toned,

That never from that most melodious bird

Singing a love song to his brooding mate,

Did Thracian shepherd by the grave

Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody,

Though there the spirit of the sepulchre

All his own power infuse, to swell

The incense that he loves.”

Aristaeus, the Bee-Keeper.

Man avails himself of the instincts of the inferior animals for his own advantage. Hence sprang the art of keeping
bees. Honey must first have been known as a wild product, the bees building their structures in hollow trees or holes
in the rocks, or any similar cavity that chance offered. Thus occasionally the carcass of a dead animal would be
occupied by the bees for that purpose. It was no doubt from some such incident that the superstition arose that the
bees were engendered by the decaying flesh of the animal; and Virgil, in the following story, shows how this supposed
fact may be turned to account for renewing the swarm when it has been lost by disease or accident.

Aristaeus, who first taught the management of bees, was the son of the water-nymph Cyrene. His bees had perished,
and he resorted for aid to his mother. He stood at the river side and thus addressed her: “O mother, the pride of my
life is taken from me! I have lost my precious bees. My care and skill have availed me nothing, and you, my mother,
have not warded off from me the blow of misfortune.” His mother heard these complaints as she sat in her palace at the
bottom of the river, with her attendant nymphs around her. They were engaged in female occupations, spinning and
weaving, while one told stories to amuse the rest. The sad voice of Aristaeus interrupting their occupation, one of
them put her head above the water and seeing him, returned and gave information to his mother, who ordered that he
should be brought into her presence. The river at her command opened itself and let him pass in, while it stood curled
like a mountain on either side. He descended to the region where the fountains of the great rivers lie; he saw the
enormous receptacles of waters and was almost deafened with the roar, while he surveyed them hurrying off in various
directions to water the face of the earth. Arriving at his mother’s apartment, he was hospitably received by Cyrene and
her nymphs, who spread their table with the richest dainties. They first poured out libations to Neptune, then regaled
themselves with the feast, and after that Cyrene thus addressed him: “There is an old prophet named Proteus, who dwells
in the sea and is a favourite of Neptune, whose herd of sea-calves he pastures. We nymphs hold him in great respect,
for he is a learned sage and knows all things, past, present, and to come. He can tell you, my son, the cause of the
mortality among your bees and how you may remedy it. But he will not do it voluntarily, however you may entreat him.
You must compel him by force. If you seize him and chain him, he will answer your questions in order to get released,
for he cannot by all his arts get away if you hold fast the chains. I will carry you to his cave, where he comes at
noon to take his midday repose. Then you may easily secure him. But when he finds himself captured, his resort is to a
power he possesses of changing himself into various forms. He will become a wild boar or a fierce tiger, a scaly dragon
or lion with yellow mane. Or be will make a noise like the crackling of flames or the rush of water, so as to tempt you
to let go the chain, when he will make his escape. But you have only to keep him fast bound, and at last when he finds
all his arts unavailing, he will return to his own figure and obey your commands.” So saying she sprinkled her son with
fragrant nectar, the beverage of the gods, and immediately an unusual vigour filled his frame, and courage his heart,
while perfume breathed all around him.

The nymph led her son to the prophet’s cave and concealed him among the recesses of the rocks, while she herself
took her place behind the clouds. When noon came and the hour when men and herds retreat from the glaring sun to
indulge in quiet slumber, Proteus issued from the water, followed by his herd of sea-calves which spread themselves
along the shore. He sat on the rock and counted his herd; then stretched himself on the floor of the cave and went to
sleep. Aristaeus hardly allowed him to get fairly asleep before he fixed the fetters on him and shouted aloud. Proteus,
waking and finding himself captured, immediately resorted to his arts, becoming first a fire, then a flood, then a
horrible wild beast, in rapid succession. But finding all would not do, he at last resumed his own form and addressed
the youth in angry accents: “Who are you, bold youth, who thus invade my abode, and what do you want with me?”
Aristaeus replied, “Proteus, you know already, for it is needless for any one to attempt to deceive you. And do you
also cease your efforts to elude me. I am led hither by divine assistance, to know from you the cause of my misfortune
and how to remedy it.” At these words the prophet, fixing on him his grey eyes with a piercing look, thus spoke: “You
receive the merited reward of your deeds, by which Eurydice met her death, for in flying from you she trod upon a
serpent, of whose bite she died. To avenge her death, the nymphs, her companions, have sent this destruction to your
bees. You have to appease their anger, and thus it must be done: Select four bulls, of perfect form and size, and four
cows of equal beauty, build four altars to the nymphs, and sacrifice the animals, leaving their carcasses in the leafy
grove. To Orpheus and Eurydice you shall pay such funeral honours as may allay their resentment. Returning after nine
days, you will examine the bodies of the cattle slain and see what will befall.” Aristaeus faithfully obeyed these
directions. He sacrificed the cattle, he left their bodies in the grove, he offered funeral honours to the shades of
Orpheus and Eurydice; then returning on the ninth day he examined the bodies of the animals, and, wonderful to relate!
a swarm of bees had taken possession of one of the carcasses and were pursuing their labours there as in a hive.

In “The Task,” Cowper alludes to the story of Aristaeus, when speaking of the ice-palace built by the Empress Anne
of Russia. He has been describing the fantastic forms which ice assumes in connection with waterfalls. etc.:

“Less worthy of applause though more admired

Because a novelty, the work of man,

Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,

Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,

The wonder of the north. No forest fell

When thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its stores

T’ enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods

And make thy marble of the glassy wave.

In such a palace Aristaeus found

Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale

Of his lost bees to her maternal ear.”

Milton also appears to have had Cyrene and her domestic scene in his mind when he describes to us Sabrina, the nymph
of the river Severn, in the Guardian-spirit’s song in “Comus”:

“Sabrina fair!

Listen where thou art sitting

Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave

In twisted braids of lilies knitting

The loose train of thy amber-drooping hair;

Listen for dear honour’s sake,

Goddess of the silver lake!

Listen and save.”

The following are other celebrated mythical poets and musicians, some of whom were hardly inferior to Orpheus
himself:

Amphion.

Amphion was the son of Jupiter and Antiope, queen of Thebes. With his twin brother Zethus, he was exposed at birth
on Mount Cithaeron, where they grew up among the shepherds, not knowing their parentage. Mercury gave Amphion a lyre
and taught him to play upon it, and his brother occupied himself in hunting and tending the flocks. Meanwhile Antiope,
their mother, who had been treated with great cruelty by Lycus, the usurping king of Thebes, and by Dirce, his wife,
found means to inform her children of their rights and to summon them to her assistance. With a band of their
fellow-herdsmen they attacked and slew Lycus, and tying Dirce by the hair of her head to a bull, let him drag her till
she was dead.19 Amphion, having become king of Thebes, fortified the city with
a wall. It is said that when he played on his lyre the stones moved of their own accord and took their places in the
wall.

See Tennyson’s poem of “Amphion” for an amusing use made of this story.

19 The punishment of Dirce is the subject of a celebrated
group of statuary now in the Museum at Naples.

Linus.

Linus was the instructor of Hercules in music, but having one day reproved his pupil rather harshly, he roused the
anger of Hercules, who struck him with his lyre and killed him.

Thamyris.

An ancient Thracian bard, who in his presumption challenged the Muses to a trial of skill, and being overcome in the
contest, was deprived by them of his sight. Milton alludes to him with other blind bards, when speaking of his own
blindness, “Paradise Lost,” Book III. 35.

Marsyas.

Minerva invented the flute, and played upon it to the delight of all the celestial auditors; but the mischievous
urchin Cupid having dared to laugh at the queer face which the goddess made while playing, Minerva threw the instrument
indignantly away, and it fell down to earth and was found by Marsyas. He blew upon it, and drew from it such ravishing
sounds that he was tempted to challenge Apollo himself to a musical contest. The god of course triumphed, and punished
Marsyas by flaying him alive.

Melampus.

Melampus was the first mortal endowed with prophetic powers. Before his house there stood an oak tree containing a
serpent’s nest. The old serpents were killed by the servants, but Melampus took care of the young ones and fed them
carefully. One day when he was asleep under the oak the serpents licked his ears with their tongues. On awaking he was
astonished to find that he now understood the language of birds and creeping things. This knowledge enabled him to
foretell future events, and he became a renowned soothsayer. At one time his enemies took him captive and kept him
strictly imprisoned. Melampus in the silence of the night heard the woodworms in the timbers talking together, and
found out by what they said that the timbers were nearly eaten through and the roof would soon fall in. He told his
captors and demanded to be let out, warning them also. They took his warning, and thus escaped destruction, and
regarded Melampus and held him in high honour.

Musaeus.

A semi-mythological personage who was represented by one tradition to be the son of Orpheus. He is said to have
written sacred poems and oracles. Milton couples his name with that of Orpheus in his “Il Penseroso”: